


Between the Sage and Pussy Willows

by Cantarella (RebelRouse)



Series: Ballads of a Broken Knight [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Banter, Bigotry & Prejudice, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Cat School (The Witcher), Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, F/M, Gen, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Mess, Light Angst, M/M, Monster of the Week, POV Alternating, Pagan Festivals, Paganism, Pre-The Last Wish (book), Roach is the Best (The Witcher), Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, seriously guys its gonna take a MINUTE
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:28:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26486437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebelRouse/pseuds/Cantarella
Summary: After a long wintering in Kaer Morhen, Geralt reunites with Jaskier to continue their travels across the Northern Realms. It's Birke, the elven festival for the spring equinox. An auspicious time for new beginnings, fertility, and rebirth. In one tiny town, the bard and the witcher face the proclivities of bad men and discover something about each other along the way.---A saga of pining in (5) parts, starting with one festival and ending with another.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Ballads of a Broken Knight [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1925524
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	Between the Sage and Pussy Willows

Geralt feels the grit of earth scraping under his tongue, lips twisting into a hideous smile.

The stench of sty mud lingers, clinging to his skin and mixing with his sweat.

Figures dance in the dark. The squelch of their boots lurches through the mud. A man's voice warbles his name.

The screech of a blade scrapes against the ground before him, cutting upward through the air with a _swoosh_.

The witcher hits the ground with a dull smack of pain rippling up his spine, the weight of a body crumpled on top of him.

He feels a warm and viscous liquid pooling against his chest.

Under his chin, the tufts of brown hair smell of verbena.

The tufts of red hair smell of blood.

A sharp breath sucks into Geralt's lungs as he lurches from his sleep. The heels of his boots digging into mulch and soft earth of a forest floor. His hand reaches to touch the wolf medallion strung from his neck, where the phantom weight is still pressed against his chest. The heart beneath it flutters with the rush of adrenaline until the sensation tempers away into nothing. His head is spinning as he relaxes back into the nook of an old spindly tree.

It was only a dream.

The sun silts through the trees of another dreary morning, not a fright or near creature to fear. Above, the trees are rife with the chatter of curious jays and animated shrikes heralding the morning. Below, Roach happily munches on a fresh patch of clover some-whereabouts the witcher left her the night before. Her head doesn't lift as Geralt sits up from a patch of woodland moss that served him the night's bedding. The sweat of his shirt clings across his broad shoulders as he hunches forward to rest against his knees. There's no magic vibrating in the medallion. He continues to coax the engraving between finger and thumb, mulling over the visage for any wisdom in its foresight.

That smell.

That voice.

The witcher tiredly pinches his eyes shut, attempting to swab his thoughts clean. Vesemir had always taken interest in his dreams, asking him to break down the details when they'd wrench him from his cot. He never knew what the old man saw in hints of dreams, visions of the future, or more for an insight of the mind. Dreams were dreams, a bastardization of the memories swirling around his mind before he'd fallen asleep. No insight, no prophecy, only mulched thoughts. Any attempt for Geralt to piece them together would be like trying to match up the edges of shredded tissue paper.

Knowing it's futile to dwell, the witcher carries on with the morning.

Gulet is where Jaskier agreed to meet Geralt in the spring; a nonsense town lacking the notoriety of its much more lucrative neighboring cities. In his experience tends to foster the presence of witchers better than others, at least in days past. After days of toiling through smaller trails leading out of Blue Mountains, the witcher begins to pass familiar etchings of civilization.

By the time noon has come and gone, Roach is tracing scars of generations of wagon wheels carving grooves out of the earth. The wind carries the scent of burning sage and cedar, growing strong enough to itch the back of Geralt's nose as he draws to the settlement's edges. The chimneys above plume with flying white smoke. Villagers are trying to drown out their hearth and home of any traces of evil spirits leftover from winter. The witcher never thought the superstition to be any effective, yet he doesn't fault it. He enjoys the smell.

Ahead, two young women with virgins plaits braided down to their backs tend to one of the lower hanging branches suspended over the road. A woman sat atop another's shoulders trying to affix a string-tied effigy woven from young vines and wildflowers. The lower of the two loses a fight with gravity as the other wiggles for control on top of her. It's not long before one releases an undignified yelp, the two crumple like a house of cards into the center of the road. Whereupon Roach's gradual trundle stops a fair few paces away from a madhouse of laughter from the two women kneeling in the dirt. Neither of them taking notice of neither the mare nor her fair-haired rider dismounting.

“Melitele, help us!” One of the ladies squeaks with a jolt of fright, having not seen nor heard the witcher's approach. As she rises, her bare feet hook and trip on the bottoms of her skirts. The older one, who had been weaving branches, throws a cursory look over her shoulder as they both pull to their feet.

“Aye — c'mon Alva. It's only a witcher,” the older girl hushes under her breath as Alva's hands grapple at her kirtle to put her between the both of them.

“A witcher looking to pass through, maybe for a drink, is all,” Geralt assures in a tone alike to kindness as much as it is prickly. In the beginning, he'd allowed himself to hope that townships would welcome him with wide, unproblematic arms. As it turned out, most of Aedirn had lost their patience with his kind. Too many children had spirited away from their homes, too much blood, the reputation is as spoiled as anywhere else. Gulet had been more tolerant in the past, even amicable to a small contract or two, but things seem to have changed.

“Sure, until he decides to t — HEY!”

The other woman begins dragging Alva back by the arm, huffing indignantly that whatever reason there is to hate witchers today. It'd be none of Geralt's business to know.

“Ha-ho, Geralt!” A familiar voice cries out in joy.

Two hands springing up from behind an absurdly large bushel of kindling strapped to a young man's back. One of them gently coercing the bundle aside as it passes, Jaskier's sprightly face springs out alongside it from him to cut through the crowd. His doublet of indigo inlaid with butter yellow detailing pops through the muddied colors of common folk that weave around him. He pardons himself, nearly slapping someone else in the face with the lute strapped to his back as he clears through the path towards Geralt. A little skip into his step, eager to take a gander at the two rosy-cheeked ladies. “What's this you ol' goat, getting ahead on the festivities — Oh, where are they going?” the troubadour's attention trails after the two women currently lapsing down the street in unease. Looking back at the two of them, Jaskier tries to smile, only for it to creak ineffectually when they turn away again. Neither of them seems to be in a festive mood.

Geralt doesn't answer, scrapping his most recent thought to merely grunt his displeasure. He gives Roach a cursory tug and Jaskier a cursory nod in the right direction.

Gulet's one and good tavern is nothing to cry about. It's nice for a town of smaller status, the colorful banners strung from rafter to rafter show signs of fade and peppered moth holes. The open windows and open doors let in a cool spring draft that leaves the banners to gently sway overhead. Beneath them, wooden posts are painted fresh with new flowers, which does little to hide how weathered with age. Every edge in the place has been buffed with time and splintered, chairs and tables creaking at every little breath.

The witcher and the bard are set at a table beside the open window. A few patrons scale soured glances their way, some familiar with the bard that has been busking for room and board. Others weary of the witcher's presence dissolving into whispers against their mugs. Geralt ignores it largely, sunken into his chair with a leg extended over to the bard's side in a means to stretch it out after a day's journey on horseback. A barmaid weaves around half-filled tables to hastily deposit two frothy mugs of ale in the divide between them. She wouldn't even meet Geralt's eyes.

“You forgot, didn't you?” Jaskier muses as he takes up his flagon in his hands to drink.

“No,” Geralt exhales, ignoring Jaskier further in favor of plucking at a bowl of pickled vegetables. Sweet and tangy enough to squeak between his teeth as he crunches into them. He had, in fact, not forgotten. At the very most, he'd miscounted his days due to a gull-fueled hangover. As is the tradition been for several years now between the witchers of Kaer Morhen.

The bard scoffs. “We _did_ agree on the ides, which I managed to meet on my end. Unlike you, who was still probably neck-deep in the woods literally chasing monster tail.”

Typical.

“Hmm.”

Extremely typical.

“ _-Hmm-_ ” Jaskier mocks. “Yeah well, you didn’t manage to avoid Birke this year did you, Geralt.”

Geralt's cheeks puff indignantly with a grimace, full of ale until he swallows. “I'm not avoiding anything.”

Geralt is, in fact, avoiding plenty of things. Things like Jaskier's absurd notion he'd won some years ago the right to derail their travels for any festivities whatsoever. Geralt had hoped to merely miss the day by arriving just one too late. Instead, he arrived five days late and still one day too earlier than he would have liked. Their sparsely agreed-upon plan — the kind one makes in jest and ultimately forgets by the season's end — is coming through this year. A good idea in retrospect, but now that Geralt is there he isn't so sure. Something in his gut still feels off.

“Well then you wouldn't be opposed to staying in Gulet for the festivities.”

The day of the spring equinox, where families cleanse their homes and begin anew from the winter. It's a time for beginnings. People often burn effigies to ward spirits and absolve evil. For them, namely Jaskier, it's just another night to drink and let fingers wander. The witcher had no doubt there's already someone on his mind. Somewhere in Gulet, there had to be at least one local maiden willful enough to distract him long enough for Geralt to arrive.

“Actually, I would.”

“C'mon. It's the new year. I know you've been all cramped up in the mountains all winter grunting and mucking about all on your own. Can't mean to say you're _still_ anti-fun? Not restless at all? Not at all intrigued by the prospect of chasing cute maidens through the meadows to whip with willow branches and getting completely tossed by morning?”

“If you hadn't noticed, Gulet doesn't seem to be taking too kindly to witchers.” Geralt enhances his statement with a blind gesture to cite the entire room. Not that Jaskier would understand, fully, in the end. The troubadour could come up with a dozen other excuses for why the room sat quiet and cold in their presence. Around them shoulders are tense, conversation stifled. The witcher couldn't make too much sense among the whispers, and he needn't do. Instead, he chooses to follow the journey Jaskier's face takes through the motions of cruel enlightenment. Starting from excusable bafflement to being genuinely upset. Geralt is unable to determine if it is on his behalf or simply of the bard's realization that all his pro-witcher propaganda has fallen on uncultured, deaf ears. A poet's nightmare.

“Is it any worse than any other backwater town in the Northern Kingdoms? A bunch of ignorant mountain folk without the sense of decency to — OW!” The bard cuts off with a yelp as a thump rattles under the table.

Geralt slowly retracts his leg as he sits up and gathers his flagon. “They spit in our drinks.”

“And you're still...” Jaskier's voice trails as Geralt takes a deep swig of ale “ — Okay. So.... why not try and win them over. In fact, there may be a job here in it for you.” Jaskier pauses to lean his arms over the table, casually nudging his tainted drink aside. “I heard nearby there's been talk of traders disappearing in the woods. Hm? Sounds pretty promising, doesn't it? Come in, save the day, everyone loves you, you get paid, and then we celebrate.”

“We don't hire witchers here,” the barmaid chimes in, wading by with a stack of empty pickle bowls tucked under one arm. “We take their coin and show them along their way.”

“Wh — ” Geralt's empty mug severs the bard's sigh as it clanks onto the table. His expression remains stone-cold, although the bard's keen eye might read his expression as 'mildly grim'.

“The lady's right, Jaskier.” Geralt rises from his creaky chair and deposits a few ducats along the edge of the table. “We should be on our way.”

Jaskier doesn't have any say in the matter or at least doesn't try to voice it.

The two walk in silence down the open road out of Gulet. Roach trots alongside Geralt, who loosely holds her lead. Jaskier struts along the other side of him, taking longer measured steps to keep up with the witcher's pace. It's a feat for Jaskier, who'd often talk to himself to fill in the time. Especially now, after a long boring winter, has a craving for attention. Waiting all this time to tell Geralt about a ridiculous dinner party where they discussed deovils and satyrs. Or when Count DeTallis got his head lodged in an antique dwarven piss pot. Or his gallant rescue of a maiden from being attacked by a swarm of seagulls (and how she repaid him). All these stories he's savored for him. Yet, the troubadour can't bring himself to bring one up. His hand raises to speak, mouth widening into a smile, and hesitates again once he sees the deep furrow of Geralt's brow steely staring ahead.

“It's just a stupid festival anyway,” Jaskier dismisses once his thoughts have re-ordered. “We don't need 'em.”

There's only a finite amount of festivals Jaskier will ever be graced with joining. Only so many more nights splayed before a great bonfire on the spring equinox. He'd liked to have seen what Gulet had to offer. It's often the scrappy, deeply spirited towns who added a delicious flare to broad traditions. Now, they'll be lucky to reach anywhere by nightfall. His big, roaring bonfire will be a pyramid of sticks. Cherry hand pies will be replaced by Geralt's bland rations. The troubadour's thought trails with the visage of whipping Geralt's rump with a pussy willow branch (and the expression that would be mad if he does it).

“Although....” The bard perks back with a singsong voice.

“Drop it,” the witcher utters. Jaskier remains undeterred, having long deciphered a growl from a bite. He's traveled with Geralt enough now to know how the witcher picks his battles — which is to say, often only the ones where something threatening points something sharp back at him. He can see how much careless words can hurt him. _But witcher's don't have feelings._ The troubadour would argue this witcher feels all the feelings, even the ones he's not meant to.

“Aren't you the least bit curious?”

Geralt stops suddenly to turn and look at the other man, possibly for the first time since they left town. “And _you_ are?”

“Well, yes. Especially when it leads to, money! Women! Drinking!” The troubadour's hands jolt outward for every tick on the list. It's obvious to him, painfully so. The romantic archetype of the underdog, the antihero. He knows how the perfect story can play out right before his eyes. He'd be able to churn it into a beautiful, tear-wrenching ballad about the broken knight and the town who loathed him. In his head, it's far more dramatic: casting stones, outcries from the village, a maiden in danger. The bard's fantasies are already getting away from him. He can't get the oomph, the _flavor_ of that story if someone continues to be maddeningly stubborn.

“It's probably only wild dogs, not even worth the sweat even for the meat on them,” Geralt reasons. His voice drops into a familiar softness the bard only seems to see once he's whittled those hard edges down. It might have deterred him if only Jaskier didn't find it as reasonable as he does dismissive.

“Aren't you teeming with optimism.” The troubadour beats on. “It's nice to see you, by the way. It was _dreadfully_ dull all winter without all the grumpiness and dramatics. It seems like for like the last winter's vacation did nothing for your humors.” He makes a sweeping gesture at Geralt's whole self before realizing the witcher's expression has changed. His gaze draws away into the woods, lips pressed firmly together sharpens the curve of his jaw. Holding his tongue, or perhaps feeling a bit guilty for being so abhorrently dismissive once Jaskier stepped foot out of that crowd. The aversion to Jaskier's gaze feels more reasonable this time, not dismissive.

“It....” Geralt pauses, his eyes rolling as if to wipe the thought and start clean. Speaking now more honest about himself than Jaskier believes he might most days. “I had a rough night.”

“Oh?” Jaskier asks, trying to refrain from sounding too invested. It's rare, these kinds of talks. One move might startle an honest beast away. “What happened?”

“Couldn't sleep. And when I did I had a strange....” The witcher's voice once again pauses.

“'A strange'....” the bard repeats. This time, Geralt hasn't paused to re-order his thoughts again. This time, his eyes stay trained along the forest's edge. Golden eyes hardening ever so slightly. It's a kind of look he's accustomed to looking out for, the kind of look that spells danger. “Geralt?”

“Stay where you are,” the witcher orders. Roach's lead drops from his hand to blindly grasp the hilt of a sword out of his saddlebag. It lies low near his thigh as he trudges into the thick wood. Jaskier's head whips from Roach to the sliver of movement that he recognizes as Geralt's back, unsure of what he's missed.

“...Geralt???” Jaskier calls out, lifting on one set of toes to volley his voice into the void of foliage. Without second delay or consideration for himself, he gathers Roach's reins and follows after him.


End file.
